Year 14, Month 12

The two teenagers laid on the grass, staring at the clouds that floated above them. They were both silent, smiling and not looking at each other. She was a couple of inches taller than him, with long legs that wouldn’t look as skinny in a few years, probably drawing looks from guys. Although he was shorter, he was just starting his growth spurts, as well as the gain in muscle mass. There were already pimples on his face, but the acne would get worse before it got better.

“What do you want to do, after you graduate?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to stay here.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just feels like… like being stuck, or trapped. Yeah, ‘trapped’.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“I do, I really do. But it just feels like there’s so much more out there, you know? Not just in other cities, but all over the world. I want to visit other countries and stuff.”

“Well, it’s one thing to travel once or twice a year, but I think I’d be homesick pretty fast if I was away for more than a month.”

They were quiet for some minutes more. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the grass and the trees around them. He heard her inhale and turned to look at her face, simply staring at her without thinking of anything in particular. Reluctantly, he moved his hand towards hers and grasped it gently. She smiled, and squeezed his hand in return.

“I would miss you.”

“Hm?”

“If I left, I mean. That’s probably the only reason I could think of staying.” He admitted, shyly.

“What about your dad? Wouldn’t you miss him too? Doesn’t he want you to work in the shop with him?”

“Yeah but… I don’t want to be a mechanic. I don’t really like cars and engines and all that.”

“You think he’s going to be mad about that?”

“I don’t know.”

She opened her eyes and stared back at him, smiling. Though no one really paid attention to them, she was embarrassed about her retainer and had developed the habit of smiling with her lips closed. He really liked her smile, however she chose to do it.

“You could go with me. Don’t you want to see the world?”

“I guess. But at the end of the day I still want to sleep in my bed, and sit on my couch and watch my TV.”

The boy didn’t answer, not really knowing what to say. The idea of not being with her in the future hadn’t even crossed his mind at this point. She was his first girlfriend, and he was her first boyfriend; the relationship blossoming as much from an interest in the idea of a relationship as from an interest in one another. They shared everything with each other: fears, dreams, regrets, hopes, and idle thoughts that didn’t seem to matter at all. This was the kind of relationship that was only possible at that stage in life, when they were reckless enough to throw themselves into it with no second thoughts, but mature enough to care about their partner’s feelings as much as their own.

The young man moved closer to her so that their shoulders were touching.
“Do you think we’re too young to know what love is?” he asked, not really sure if he knew his own thoughts on the matter.

“No. Some stuff you just know, like, you’re born knowing. You know if you’re afraid, or hungry, or happy. You just know. Nobody says people are too young to know if they’re happy.”

He thought about what she said for a moment.

“I think I love you, Daria.”

“I think I love you too” she answered. Neither of them looked away.


Year 18, Month 4

Shooting the rifle was very different from any shooting he had done before. He had fired a shotgun, a hunting rifle and an air pistol when he went on trips to his uncle’s farm, but the weapon on his hands was very different from those. Perhaps it was because of the formality of it all, the paper targets and set spacing instead of cans sitting on a fence some distance away. It could be the instructions he had received, the careful exposition of the inner workings of the mechanism, the correct way to place one’s hands, set the stock against the shoulder and look down the sights. Most likely, it was the fact that this weapon was designed specifically for killing human beings.

The assault rifle was heavier than it looked. Black metal and plastic making up a peculiar shape and containing a somewhat complex collection of mechanical components, working in unison to allow the shooter to launch projectiles down the rage with a small movement of the finger. As Karlow performed this simple movement, he did as his instructors said and visualized the target as a living, breathing human being, falling down as it was hit. There was a thunderous cacophony as all of the recruits fired their weapons, each at their own pace. Many had previous military experience, while others had never even seen a gun in real life before.

He didn’t look at the other’s targets, not wanting to compare himself with them. Not that it would do much good; he was so far away that it was nearly impossible to see the tiny holes that the rounds made. Comparing himself against the others was generally not a very good idea, he learned. Apparently, he was terribly misguided when he thought he was fit enough to join The Legion, and was educated on the size of his misconception as soon as the training began. Exercises of all kinds made him sore in places he didn’t even know it was possible to feel muscle pain. The marches and runs and walks took place over paved or unpaved terrain, sometimes uphill, sometimes with weight on their backs.

Initially, the language had been the greatest challenge. It took him days to pick up on the most basic of instructions, and his trainers did not go easy on him because of that difficulty; if anything, they made it harder. He was finally starting to get the gist of it, how the verbs worked, how the words were supposed to be put together to form coherent sentences. There was a feeling of victory when he was finally able to tell someone where the armory was.

“Karlow! Spread your legs further apart!”

It took him a moment to realize they were talking to him. The name he had chosen, Istvan Karlow, was based on the first name of a teacher he had in high school, and the surname was the name of a brand of watches he saw in an outdoor on the way to the recruiting station.

“Yes sir!” he yelled back, butchering the pronunciation.

The instructor walked towards him and looked at his target with a set of binoculars. “You’re doing well, Karlow. Keep it up.” The comment was barely intelligible, and even then only because of the tone. “I didn’t tell you to stop shooting, Karlow!”

“Yes sir!” He resumed firing.

Later, at the barracks, there was talk among the men about the experience earlier in the day. They were excited for having finally started to do something combat-oriented, doing little more than agreeing with one another as they talked about how fun or how hard it was. Some of the men, the ones who had previous military training, were mostly quiet, some commenting on how this particular weapon compared with the ones they had experience with. Karlow sat quietly on his bed and listened to them, picking up as much information as possible with his broken English and terribly limited French. If he was going to be a good soldier he would need to learn by watching those who knew of soldiering, not just listening to his instructors and following orders but also by observing what actual soldiers did and doing it himself.

“Interesting day, huh?” The man asked. He had blond hair cut short like his, light blue eyes, and somewhat pale skin which had turned red by the scorching sun.

“Yes. Interesting.” He answered, trying not to convey any specific emotion.

“I’m Kristoff” he extended his hand.

“Istvan” he shook it.

“Had you ever fired a rifle before?” he asked, sitting down in front of him.

“Not that one.”

“Me neither. I liked it. Hope we get to do it more soon.”

“Yes.”

Istvan did not ask about the man’s experience with guns, or his nationality, or his reasons for joining The Legion. He did not ask any questions that he himself would be uncomfortable answering. Still, the conversation flowed.


Year 19, Month 1

“Larsson, Karlow, stop blowing each other and get in position!”

“Yes sir!” the two of them answered in unison.

The sergeant was an angry-looking man with a raspy voice and incredibly thick eyebrows. One could learn to like him, if they managed to look past the constant swearing, the uncalled for hostility, the arrogance, the personality in general, the looks… Well, he was good at being a sergeant, at least. Following the order, the men fell into position as they continued to advance down the dirt road. They were moving on, now that the village had been deemed “safe” by the people in charge of making the decisions. The people on the ground, after all, were just in charge of dealing with the consequences.

They walked in silence for an hour and a half, the spacing between them preventing any conversation from taking place. It was out of nowhere that the shots started flying above their heads, and everyone hit the ground before the sergeant gave the order. Frantically, they crawled to the nearest cover available while searching for the place the shots were coming from.

“North-northeast! My eleven o’clock! Two hostiles!” Someone screamed. Probably one of the more experienced soldiers.

The rest of them took their cue to start firing in the general direction indicated, even if they didn’t really see anything. Karlow was one of them, doing his best to follow the instructions when it came to aiming and shooting the gun. In truth, he didn’t see anything resembling a person, but everyone else was firing. Kristoff also had his rifle ready, and popped off a round or two at seemingly random intervals. It took a while, but the shooting died down, and there was a moment of silence.

“Damn, that was pretty intense, wasn’t it?” Kristoff said, laying next to him. The blonde smiled, looking excited, while Istvan looked for an answer that didn’t sound stupid.

“Yeah. Pretty intense.”

“That’s so cool,” the other continued, mostly talking to himself, “so cool.”

They stayed prone for a few minutes while the sergeant talked on the radio with the base. They were ordered to continue the march. It was right after he stood that Istvan saw a man running away from the place the shots had come from, a weapon visibly in his hand.

“C-c-contact!” he said, not loud enough for the others to hear. He dropped to one knee and sighted the target, ready to fire, but his finger wouldn’t move. He knew he needed to shoot, but something deep inside him was resistant to the idea of killing another human being, locking his hand in the position as he helplessly followed the man’s trajectory with the barrel of his gun.

The sudden noise of three shots broke his trance, and the running man fell to the ground, limp.

“Hey kid.” The other soldier approached him. He wasn’t more than a few years older than Istvan, but he carried himself like someone who had been in that line of business for a long time. “You ok?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Get up.”

Istvan obeyed as the man got closer.

“You can’t think of them as human, you know? You have to tell yourself they’re just targets. Just moving pictures or something. Then, after you bag a few, it gets a lot easier.”

“I understand.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, just a bit startled. First taste of combat.”

“Good.” The soldier approached him more, suddenly slapping Istvan on the head with such strength that he momentarily lost his balance and his helmet turned in a weird angle. Before he could get his footing, the man grabbed his collar and pulled him close to his face. “If I see you not firing at a target again, I’ll slip into your tent at night and slit your throat. You understand that, you little shit?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good” The man said, letting go of him, “Now get back in position.”